Housekeeping
by Scribblesinink
Summary: Although he's no longer wearing the SAA patch, Tig still picks up after the Club's president.


**Author's note**: Contains reference to (forced) drug use. Thanks to Tanaqui for betaing.

_**Housekeeping**_

_**by Scribblesinink**_

Tig dropped his cigarette and ground out the butt with his heel as Jax came clumping down the stairs from Wendy's apartment. His jaw was set, his eyes hard, and he strode past the truck toward his bike without looking at Tig.

Tig knew better than to ask what had happened. After Jax had gotten him off the hook with Pope, he'd stuck to his word and backed every one of Jax's plays, not questioning him once. But he'd been unable to keep his mouth shut when Jax told him to get a speedball and meet him at Wendy's place. With the girl's history, it was a kinda dick move.

He'd always thought Jax was a pussy: too weak to take the gavel and too soft to make the hard calls. Jax had surprised him more than once over the past few months: he'd fixed RICO, gotten the cartel off their backs, and exposed Clay for the selfish asshole he was. But this? Tig couldn't figure out where it fit.

So, yeah, he'd asked why Jax would take a ready-to-shoot syringe full of drugs to his ex-junkie ex-wife. He shoulda known Jax wouldn't share his reasons; he played his cards too close to his chest.

True to form, Jax didn't say a word while he strapped on his helmet, his movements brusque. A moment later, the bike roared off, rear wheel throwing up grit as Jax opened the gas more than he should've. Tig watched silently until the taillight disappeared in the dark night.

Ready to leave, he reached for the truck's door. He hesitated with his hand on the handle, shifting his attention to the top floor apartment Jax had just left. This shit was between Jax and his former Old Lady; it had nothing to do with him, right?

So why the hell was he still here? He should've hightailed it outta here the instant he gave Jax the syringe. But he knew how tough life could be for an ex-junkie. Always with the specter of the monkey on their back: watching, waiting. He'd seen it enough: with Kozik, years ago; more recently, with Lowell Jr.

Fuckin' ugly shit.

Tig's eyes narrowed as his gaze caught movement on the top floor. He waited, but nobody came out. After a minute he realized it was the door, half-open, moving in the night breeze. "Jesus, Jax," he cursed. Jax could've at least pulled it shut behind him.

Before he knew what he was doing, Tig was halfway up the stairs, aiming for Wendy's apartment. He carefully inched the door further open, until he could see inside. Wendy lay crumpled against the wall just inside the jamb. "Shit." He knelt before her. Was she—?

Then he noticed the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Not dead, then.

The syringe was lying next to her, discarded on the carpet. He picked it up, wary of the exposed sharp needle, and pushed back to his feet. Dropping it in the trash can in the kitchen, he returned to Wendy. She hadn't moved, though she was now watching him through hooded lids, eyes going in and out of focus. Damn, that speedball must've hit her hard if she was this out of it.

He stood looking down at her, considering. He couldn't leave her like this, could he?

Rolling his eyes at himself and grateful none of his brothers were around to see him, he bent to pick her up, groaning with the effort of hoisting the limp weight as he straightened. Now where—?

There was a sofa behind him, and he dumped Wendy unceremoniously on it. She muttered a protest, flapping a feeble hand in his direction. He slapped it away. "Tryin' ta help ya here, doll." Christ, Jax had gotten her good: she was high as a kite.

He was about to walk off when he paused again. Wouldn't do no good if she choked on her own puke. With another sigh, he rolled her onto her side, straightening her limbs, and reached for a throw folded on the sofa's arm rest. He draped it over her, and then turned off the lights. "Sorry, darlin'. Shouldn't've upset the boss."

Having done all he could, Tig walked out of the door, gently easing it closed behind him. A minute later, he was behind the wheel of the truck, driving off, Wendy already forgotten. After all, he had plenty of old ghosts of his own to take on.

**Disclaimer**: this story is a transformative work based on the Fox 21/FX Productions/Linson Entertainment/Sutter Ink television series _Sons of Anarchy_. It was written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from it. Please do not redistribute elsewhere without author attribution.


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